Cops and Robbers
by Teddster
Summary: Deep within an old building by the name of Crafted Prison, Sky and his friends are desperate to escape. This is not an easy task - the group must overcome the mysterious enigma of the warden, the vicious wrath of temp-wardens, and the magical blade of an arrogant Inspector. Here within are the stories of their attempts to escape [A Team Crafted/Other YouTubers fan-fiction.]
1. Prologue - The Infamous Inspector

**Prologue – The Infamous Inspector**

The Inspector snarled, stumbling through the raining streets with blood pouring from his arm.

He stumbled into a nearby alley, ignoring the _splash _as the broken, blood splattered golden sword fell from his grip and into a puddle. He winced, breath coming short as he pushed himself under an awning, a simple cloth thing that provided little protection from the rain. He leaned against the wall, eyeing the door a few feet to his right, and then focused his attention on the entrance to the alleyway. That was a bad idea, he thought, playing his previous actions over in his mind again, and again...

* * *

Inspector Jordan was a tall, intimidating man, who usually leered down his large, twisted nose at those he spoke to. His bright green eyes shone with intelligence, showed a lack of compassion for humans other than himself, and implied a savage ruthless streak within the man. His thin lips were usually pulled into a hostile sneer, his short hair covered by a red cap. His thin yet muscular build was usually covered by a short sleeved grey shirt, black trousers and leather boots. Instead of the customary sword, a diamond double-sided war axe hung from his waist.

"Come," he said simply, an exasperated sigh punctuating his words. The two simple police officers, wearing light blue leather armor and iron swords, along with the Inspector-in-Training, a light-brown haired man slightly shorter than Jordan. Truth be told, Jordan saw a great amount of promise within the young man, but he could not break his facade for mere potential.

"This is how we watch over the citizens of Shayana," Jordan explained, ignoring the rest of the Inspector-in-Training's pestering. They arrived at a small wooden home, a brick chimney standing out within the wood home. A thin line of smoke wafted from the chimney.

Jordan pushed the door open, not bothering to knock or anything. He stepped inside, forced to crouch lightly as the rest of his group followed. A short, portly man with a round face and eyes full of horror shot up from his chair, open book flopping to the ground. A short gasp escaped his lips, and he scanned the room quickly, looking desperately for an escape route; and for a moment he saw the opportunity, the open window that an officer had not yet taken position in front of. But then he recalled the woman that was now his wife, who had recently acquired a prominently bulging belly, and he knew he could not leave without her.

"Jason," _tsked_ Jordan with a disappointed sigh that was obviously fake. "You didn't pay your 'bills' this month!"

"I told you-" began the man, but an officer dashed forward, slamming his fist into Jason's gut. The man wheezed as the air left him, and he buckled over, clutching at his midsection.

"No excuses!" Jordan said. "Burn the place down."

The officer who had attacked Jason went over to the fireplace to comply. The other officer examined the house. A moment later, the shrill scream of a woman sounded throughout the house.

"Please," begged Jason. Jordan tilted his head and, in an act of pity, took his axe and slammed it into Jason's back. The man twitched and fell still.

The Inspector-in-Training's mouth parted open as the screaming stopped.

"Jordan, you can't-"

"I am your superior officer," snapped Jordan. "Address me as such."

"_Sir Inspector _Jordan," corrected the Inspector-in-Training. "You can't do this!"

"Why not?" replied Jordan calmly.

"It's wrong! It's most likely illegal, too!"

"It's not illegal if we make the laws," Jordan smiled.

"I..." The Inspector-in-Training took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. "I won't let you do this." Then the golden sword was in his hand, the blade leveled at Jordan.

Jordan frowned. "You were on such a nice path," said Jordan softly. "Oh, well. Replacements are always available." He gripped his axe, and the two blades met. Jordan's strength easily outclassed that of the Inspector-in-Training, and he stumbled back as his arm shook. He rolled out of the way of the second attack when he heard the dull roar of an inferno in the making. He made the mistake of turning to glance at the flames overcoming the home.

He gasped as the axe slid across his torso, creating a thin line in his tunic. He jumped back, towards the flames, tearing his gaze from the fire and the officers who ran out of the home a moment later, ignoring the Inspectors due to a wordless order. The Inspector-in-Training rose his sword, holding it vertically in front of him, before the axe slammed into it, and again, and again until the blade snapped in half and the Inspector-in-Training held only half a sword.

Jordan raised the axe above his head with both hands, staggering forward and bringing the weapon down with a savage force. The Inspector-in-Training jumped out of the way, and Jordan stumbled past him. He swiveled lazily, smirk still planted on his face, when the Inspector-in-Training launched himself forward with the broken blade. Jordan's eyes widened and he raised the axe a moment too late; the jagged edge of the broken blade slammed into the skin just below Jordan's eye, and continued to push in. Jordan ripped himself away, a trail of blood flying free, and he stumbled back. With a quick snap, the pommel of the blade slammed into his forehead, and Jordan slumped to the ground, moaning.

Unconscious as the flames passed around him.

The Inspector-in-Training turned and fled.

* * *

The newly dubbed Infamous Inspector was shoved awake by a police officer, hauled up on his feet, hands bound, and led away as the charges were announced to him; "_Arson, murder, murder of an Inspector nonetheless..."_

* * *

A/N: So a really long time ago, a friend of mine looked over some of the stories of and saw that a lot of them were just really bad YouTuber fanfics. He then challenged me to write a YouTuber fanfic that could be considered good - this is that story. I'm not sure if I've succeeded in the challenge - that's up to you to decide - but I have to say I am rather proud of a few of the things in this story, and rather disappointed in how a few of it turned out.

New chapters will come on a weekly basis, with the occasional exception.


	2. Chapter One - The Captain

(Notice: The Jordan (called the Captain) in this chapter is not the same one as the Jordan in the prologue. Sorry for confusion.)

**I. The Captain**

The newest temporary warden was chosen at midnight.

The Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork didn't bother glancing out of his office as the tiny ball lowered from the roof, courtesy of some redstone contraption made when the prison was first built. It was no special occasion for him; the wardens changed multiple times a day, whether it be due to their six hours of authority drying up or a prisoner somehow managing to make it to the escape boat (and, in turn, abruptly teleporting every prisoner, including himself, back into their cells for a new temporary warden to be chosen.)

The ball spasmed, jerked, swung around on the thin rope that held it up and was painted sloppily in redstone. The Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork harbored the thought of the ball falling and breaking, but he doubted it would happen again. Probably.

The ball sputtered to a stop, and in one final effort to finish its goal before its pitiful life came to an end, spat out a slip of paper that lazily floated down, down, down straight to the hard stone ground, cracked and occasionally overgrown with moss and other plants. On the dirty, yellow parchment, the name "BajanCanadian" was printed. The named man gloated in triumph from the temporary-afterlife before the prisoners were thrust back into the realm of the living.

The newest temporary-warden, one casually referred to as "Mitch", quickly fitted himself; the finely crafted armor was heavy, and he struggled to pull on the rune-inscribed iron chestplate over his red-black plaid coat and simple white tunic. He fitted his baton and sword onto his belt at the waist and slung the bow with a quiver full of one, single arrow over his back, then slapped the button in triumph when he realized he had shaved three point seven seconds off of his setup time.

Then that pride turned to shame and embarrassment as he realized he had forgotten to place the iron helmet atop his head.

Mitch was what some people called an "overachiever"; obviously the only people who called him this were slackers, but it still bothered him deeply. He aspired to be better than all of the other inmates; why he stopped the prisoners from escaping when warden and then became the best plotter against the warden again when stripped of title was simple: _He wanted to maintain his title as the best. _Obviously, he needed to maintain it, not capture it, he assured himself once again, but the lack of headgear made this statement seem bitter and forced. His face was scarlet and then he brought upon his mind more shame when he realized that his face was scarlet which caused his face to turn an even brighter and wider shade of scarlet and the prisoners of the nearest cell were staring at him _oh god he wasn't the best why wasn't he the best?_

It took him but a moment to morph from total breakdown to calm and collected, as always, and he straightened up, plastered a confident grin on his face and bellowed out to the inmates, "Alright, listen up!"

The prisoners crowed up to the bars of their cells, even though only two people sat in each cell, and he passed a quick glance over the cells to make sure everyone was there. He noted each man off in his head, putting a check on his imaginary list before passing over the stranger. He did a quick double take after realizing he did not recognize one of the prisoners, and a small noise of alarm and shock passed from his lips before he could quell it. His cheeks turned pink and before he could return to breakdown again he hurried over to the newcomer in his cell. He pointed a finger at the new man accusingly and spat, "Who the hell are you?" and then wondered if his superiors would mind the fact that he had cursed.

The man was about half an inch shorter than him, Mitch noted with smug satisfaction, his head a short messy bowl of black hair and his face unprofessionally unshaven. His eyes were a nondescript brown, and were covered slightly by the red sunglasses he wore. A black coat, ripped slightly at the left elbow, covered up a fancy pale tunic; his trousers and shoes mimed the same color as the coat, and when he spoke his voice was, Mitch noted irritably, rather suave and calm.

"I'm the Captain."

Mitch frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"Captain Jordan. Didn't they inform you that I arrived yesterday? You are the warden, right?"

Yesterday, Mitch thought to himself, I was climbing a tree and throwing sticks at the old temporary warden. He wisely did not say this aloud. "Of course I'm the warden!" he said instead, indicating his armor and weapons and his air of warden-y-ness. "Geez, it's like you've never been in prison before."

"I've never been in a prison before, though."

"Hush," Mitch waved him off. He glanced to a spot behind him, where the Captain's cellmate had returned to lying on the bunk in a bored state after the lack of announcements-

_Oh. _Announcements. Right.

With a glare, Mitch snatched the baton from his belt and slammed it into the Captain's ribcage. With a surprised cry, he flew back, and Mitch strode off with his head held high and reassured slightly in himself by the snickers of the Captain's cellmate.

As it turned out, the Captain did not appreciate his cellmate snickering at his pain. The man stood in a huff, fixing his glasses and rubbing his sore torso before pointedly storming to the other side of the cell. Sky did not care; he had watched all of the wardens cruelly treat the prisoners, and he had done so himself when his turn was called, and it wasn't a horrible thing, just annoying, so long as the Respawn Beacon was operating correctly. And the Respawn Beacon was _always _operating correctly.

Sky considered himself to be a sane man in a sea of psychopaths, and that was something he fully accepted and even enjoyed. His tunic and trousers were finely made with a variety of gray, darker gray and black colors; his hands were fitted with black gloves that covered his hand up to his wrist and his feet were adorned with a pair of maroon boots. His face was round and some considered it to be kind at first glance; from his neck hung a golden amulet with a purple stone set into it, origin of which he did not know for sure yet; his hair was a tangled mess of some ancient shade of brown and his eyes of which no one knew the true color were always hidden by a pair of perfectly fitting sunglasses. Whenever it was within his ability, something obvious and golden was near to him, though not out of greed, and it was not often this was within his ability and so he usually settled for his amulet.

"Listen up, now!" called Mitch, and Sky stood and ambled over to the cell bars lazily. The Captain stubbornly sat on his cot, ignoring Sky's whispered suggestions for him to come to the bars, and so Sky shrugged the matter off and settled to enjoy the show later.

"_I'm_ the warden," announced Mitch, as if to prove that he was, indeed, the warden, "and so you have to do what I say, and so _sir you are not listening up, now!"_

The last part came in a slightly shrill shriek as Mitch dashed over to Sky's cell. Knowing the procedure, the man stepped against the wall as the warden flipped the lever down and stormed in, frightening a very surprised Captain. The Captain opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so a glowing sword was sticking through is body, and the prisoner's mouth hung open in dull shock at the action. Before he could choke out a sound, his eyes glazed over and his body slumped off the cot. With a "hmmph" sound, Mitch jerked the blade free as small trails of smoke started to trail upwards from the body; within minutes the corpse would be nothing but a small pile of ash and some smoke in the air, and the Captain would once again be living within another random cell. Mitch smirked to himself as he quietly stepped out of the cell, flipping the lever back up to close the door.

"Once again," Mitch began, slightly mollified, "I am indeed the warden, and thus you all must listen to me." Sky dully noted the Captain staggering back to life in a cell opposite of his, resting his head against the bars. "Thus, we'll all head over to the mess hall-"  
"Why?"

The question erupted from the Captain before the man could listen to reason and stop himself, and both the prisoner and warden looked confusion; the Captain sucked in a breath to apologize but Mitch was already upon him, snagging the front of his coat and slamming him into the bars. The Captain yelped lightly, and Mitch brought the two face to face, staring directly into his eyes. The Captain shifted uncomfortably, trying to pull away and failing, and after a few seconds of silence Mitch said, "Because I'm the warden, and I said so." Mitch pushed the man away in disgust, and the tension in the air faded away as Mitch busied himself with opening up each of the cells. After a moment of deliberation, he opened up the Captain's cell last.

The group silently marched to the mess hall, and Mitch left them unsupervised as he left to gather stale bread and orange sticks that were probably carrots. Sometimes temporary wardens appointed prisoners as second-in-commands, and these second-in-commands were bound by pure honor to oblige the warden and not assist the prisoners escape. Why Mitch did not do this, Sky was not sure, nor was he sure why temporary-wardens simply did not appoint everyone to second-in-command in title only and have six hours of luxury, but it was simply something that did not happen.

Sky was not one of the two that took the opportunity for freedom. Two other prisoners – a furry non human known only as "Jerome" and Sky's friend before his prison days Ty had both sneaked off quietly. Sky leaned back in his chair, observing his prison companions. They worked so smoothly in the face of two others making a break for it. They acted normal, as casual as they could be, not drawing attention to themselves with nervous or exaggerated movements. They were a perfect team.

All except for the Captain, who peered around with wide eyes, fidgeting nervously every time a sound floated from Mitch within the kitchen. It took but a moment for Mitch to return with a large plate piled high with, as always, stale bread and orange sticks that were probably carrots. It took him no time at all to realize the missing prisoners, and his eyes narrowed. The plate left his hand as it strayed to the sword hilt; then Jason rammed into him from behind.

The brawl began then. Husky the Mudkip from a foreign land descended upon the fallen warden in a pile of old food, SSundee following behind with a crazed look in his eyes and his sunglasses held in his mouth. Screams and punches and kicks and stabs and blood flew in the air and Sky took pity on the new guy, snagging his coat sleeve and stumblingly wildly and ignoring the Captain's shouts of protests and then they were dashing down the corridor, both their eyes wide for different reasons. It was second nature for Sky to head to the warden's office that didn't serve as an office, stagger into it, grab a pair of keys hidden in the giant box full of hundreds of keys under the warden's desk for some reason and lead the Captain back out.

Just as they got to the staircase Mitch rounded the corner in a rage, eyes wild and hair blatantly sticky with blood. He raised his bloodied sword and screamed with rage, and Sky jerked to the right and led the screaming Captain to the staircase and jammed his key into the hole, feeling the sensation of being ripped from the realm temporarily to be deposited upon the top of the stairs and yelling for the Captain to do the same. He staggered to the top of the first set of steps, and saw the Captain appear just as Mitch scrambled in his pocket for the key.

They stumbled up the second set of stairs, and the Captain almost tripped before Sky pulled him up, numbly spotting the thin rope waiting at the top, leaping over it. The Captain didn't share his eyesight, however, and stumbled and fell as it was lifted off the ground, and then Ty and Jerome were asking where Mitch was as they lowered the rope again-

Mitch rounded the corner, saw the Captain and Sky, raised his sword and then screamed.

Jerome and Ty raised the rope just before Mitch got to the top; he stumbled blindly, yelled as Jerome pounced on his back, and barely managed to keep the sword from falling from his grip. Then the three of them were in a mad pile of rage and pain. Ty jerked away with an item before his hand was separated from his arm and Sky noticed not the hand but the button still clutched within it. He lunged for it but a boot connected with his face and he stumbled back and Mitch lurched to his feet and staggered murderously towards Sky who pushed his back against the wall.

"Captain!" he called, and Mitch's eyes widened in memory before he was tossed through the air, slamming into the wall. The Captain stood behind him, eyes wide with the bloody baton in his hands, knuckles white as they clutched the enchanted wooden stick.

Mitch staggered to his feet, nose crooked, blood running down the side of his face and covering his armor and sword and arms, lurching away from the cracked and old wall. He snarled ferociously, and the Captain raised the baton and returned the sound with his own, low growl, a different but still predatory sound. The two stared at each other before beginning the mad rush, baton and sword raised to attack the other with very different intentions.

The Captain jerked to the side at the last moment, and as such the blade only glanced across his side, narrowly avoiding the ribcage. The baton, however, connected with Mitch's nose, and the man howled as he was thrown back, the sword finally slipping from his grasp, and the scream continued as the warden continued straight through the wall; after a moment, the sound cut off abruptly. Sky staggered to his feet and wobbled over to the new hole, staring down and seeing blood running from Mitch's head, his body limp and motionless. Sky snickered quietly and staggered back to the Captain, who was doubled over and pale and resisting the urge to vomit as tears began to mix with the blood on his face and he breathed shallowly because of the pain from his wound. Sky gently placed his hand on the Captain's shoulder; the man of higher rank did not acknowledge him.

"Good job," Sky praised, hoping to lift the man's spirits. It took a long moment for the Captain to reply, and just before Sky was about to saying something else, he spoke.

"H-he's not coming back, is he...?" questioned the man.

"He comes back, but his equipment doesn't," Sky assured him, and the Captain sighed with slight relief and sagged to the ground. "Good job. You won us the round."

A small smile played out on the Captain's face, but then he raised an eyebrow and turned his head up to meet Sky's eyes. "What do you mean, 'won the round'?"

_The Warden has been eliminated. The Prisoners have won the round._

At the same moment, every living thing, minus the Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork, toppled over, lifeless. All of the corpses dispersed into smoke in the air, and once again the ball dropped and shuddered and spat out a paper with the name "Deadlox" printed on it. The man in question crowed in triumph from the temporary-afterlife before everyone was thrown back into the world of the living.

The Captain returned to life in a second-floor cell. He glanced around in dumb shock, before his eyes rested upon his cellmate, a man by the name of Mitch who was lazily resting on a cot, his eyes drilling into the Captain.

"Wha-" he whispered, forcing his swirling tide of emotions back inside of him. He gulped. "N-no hard feelings for murdering you, right?"

"Definitely," Mitch replied, his face lighting up with a grin full of malice. "Nope. No hard feelings _at all._"

This was not going to be a fun time in his life, the Captain decided.

* * *

This is one of the few exceptions I talked about.


	3. Chapter Two - Deadlox

**II. Deadlox**

Ty (or Deadlox, as some weird people insisted on calling him) considered himself to be, by all the basic logic used within the prison, a fairly fair temporary warden.

(He wasn't at all a very fair warden.)

Ty was a very hip young man that just naturally fit into any situation. He did not follow fashion trends; he set them. His brown hair was the perfect mixture of mess and style, a long part of it coming down over the left side of his face, covering his left eye. (It was inconvenient, sure, but any inconvenience was worth it if it was in the name of fashion.) His single revealed eye was light brown, and a pair of incredibly expensive unnamed headphones were clamped over his ears, which no one attempted to steal for one reason or another. His white shirt, featuring a barely noticeable but still noticeable maroon trim, dipped down to reveal a small portion of the just-pale-enough skin below his neck. His trousers were some odd shade of gray that even the author cannot identify, and his shoes shared the same violet color as the wristbands on his wrists. It took him hours to ready himself for public view normally (thank goodness for respawn resetting him to his perfect condition most of the time) but whenever he had to do it himself indicated one of the few times he indulged himself with one of the few things he loved more than fashion: music.

No one was truly sure how Ty's headphones even worked; he just kept them on and whenever he wanted them to they would play whichever songs he wanted at the moment. Usually this music included some hip, trendy new song, but occasionally he played more classical music if he wanted to impress an older crowd.

Ty strode past the cells purposely now, tossing the helmet that he had never donned inside a cell at random as to not mess up his hair and headphones. He glowed in pride at the random chance that had awarded him this prestigious position, and in a moment he began to make his announcements-

"Sky, what the hell are you doing?" Ty burst out in sudden confusion.

Sky was currently hanging from the top of his cell by his legs; his arms hung loosely below him, his hair lazily pointed downwards, his glasses somehow defying the call of gravity. His legs were wrapped around a large piece of moss, and Sky yawned before responding.

"I'm a sloth, Ty. See?" Sky waved his arms slightly.

"Why are you a sloth, Sky?"

"Because, legally, you cannot imprison sloths."

"Are you absolutely certain of that?" Ty inquired.

"Quite certain."

"How do you know that, exactly?"

"I memorized a list of animals that can't be legally imprisoned. Don't ask why or when, but I did it."

"What animals," questioned Jason, Sky's current cellmate, "cannot be legally imprisoned?"

"The worm is one, I believe," Sky returned. Jason made no visible facial response to this.

"Any other ones?"

"The bald eagle." Jason made no facial gesture in response to this as well. Jason's face was hidden by a large helmet with a bright orange visor. Jason did not make visible facial gestures.

Jason bent his arms and placed his hands within his armpits; he bent his knees and began rapidly flapping his arms, imitating the sound of a bald eagle so badly a bald eagle specialist would cringe at the near mention of Jason's imitation of a bald eagle.

"Can mudkips legally be imprisoned?" Husky the mudkip called from a cell nearby.

"Yes," Sky replied. Husky cursed in reply.

"Give us the list!" someone demanded.

"Let's see..." Sky mused, before rapidly firing off a list of animal, some of which Ty had never heard of. In another few moments the cells were filled with grown men attempting to imitate animals of different varieties, and the high and low pitched cries of half a dozen animals filled his ears. He plugged his ears with his fingers, drowning out the sound for a moment, and eventually it receded.

"So you see, Ty," Sky said, "you can't legally keep us imprisoned anymore."

Ty, unsure of what to do, dashed off without a word to find the Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork and question him on the subject.

When the hip young lad returned to the cells, he found every single man still in their imitation animal form. They were determined, at the very least, Ty admitted silently.

"So you see, Ty," repeated Sky, "you can't legally keep us imprisoned anymore."

"Yes I can," Ty responded. "See, there's no way for us to release you on the grounds that you can't be imprisoned, because then we'd have to call an Inspector out to the prison, and calling an Inspector to release prisoners always makes the Inspector mad, and then when the Inspector is mad he keeps the prisoners in prison and also puts the Warden-Who-Does-Paperwork into prison as a prisoner based off of forged charges, and then the Inspector is happy but everyone else is sad. So we can't release you based on the fact that we legally can't keep you in prison anymore."

"Oh." Sky frowned, and then he fell to the ground and landed on his head and cracked his head open and died quickly. He respawned in a cell near Ty rather quickly, and crossed his arms. "But legally you're supposed to let us out, right?"

"Legally," agreed Ty. "But everyone knows official institutions don't follow laws and so we're not letting you all out."

"Fair enough," conceded Sky. The prisoners all let their animal poses fall in a disappointed huff. Then Ty noticed that the exertion from running had caused him to sweat and sweat made his face glisten and so he busied himself to remove this glisten because his glisten had to be absolutely perfect.

Meanwhile, the Captain, edging as far away from his Canadian cellmate as possible, whispered over to the next cell. "What happens if we break the walls, by the way?"

Jerome from the next cell took a moment to respond; when he did, the Captain did not notice the malicious gleam in his eye. "Oh, it's a very valid tactic. Why don't you try it out?" When the Captain hesitated, Jerome added, "Perfect opportunity. Go for it."

The Captain conceded, failing to notice the grin working its way onto Mitch's face as well, and he raised his fist and struck the nearest wall. It shifted slightly under his punch; Ty did not even glance over, still busy with his perfection. The Captain rammed it with his shoulder once, then once again, and finally the weak pile of bricks came loose and fell from their position in the wall. Ty looked up now, face suddenly pale (glisten be damned), and whispered, "Oh god no."

A low hissing sound filled the air.

With a screech, the fist sized silver bug launched itself from its upturned home, slamming into the Captain's face. The Captain screamed, stumbling back; the loud call of dozens of other Silverfish rising from their homes, awoken from their sleep and in a vengeful hunt for blood, mixed with the laughter of Jerome and Mitch, and the horror filled scream from Ty as he sprinted away.

The Silverfish swarmed the poor Captain; in a few moments he was but a twitching corpse, dissolving into smoke, and the tiny, bloodthirsty crowd lunged for their newest snack: Mitch. His laughter turned to very unmanly screams as the bugs converged on him, and he too was sent into the respawn as the colony of bugs separated and went on a blood hunt.

Screams filled the air as men were overwhelmed by miniature bugs; Sky scrambled to the roof of his cell before the bricks he was holding onto broke too and he fell into an ocean of Silverfish; Jerome struggled to pick the bugs from his floor, slapping them away with his claws and devouring a few, despite the horrid taste they offered; and Ty blocked up the warden's office, cowering in the corner and praying that none of the Silverfish would find their way into the room.

_The Warden has been eliminated. The prisoners have won the round._

Ty curled up in a ball in his new cell, shivering and repeating the word "Silverfish" over and over again as his wide eyes darted around the room. Jerome, his cellmate, spared a glance before searching for Sky and noticing him in a cell across from him.

"Hey, Sky!" Jerome called.

"Yeah?"

"Are Silverfish on the list of animals that can't legally be imprisoned?"

_"__Noooooooo!" _Ty cried.


	4. Chapter Three - Jason

**III. Jason**

Jason briefly wondered how he managed to maintain such great mobility in his large, clunky suit, and then dismissed it as irrelevant.

Jason was one of the most unique of the group of prisoners; the reason why was, while he was quite humanoid shaped, he was not a being that originated from the planet he was currently on. No one knew what planet he came from, no one but himself, and thus he considered himself unique. He was the founder and only member, now and ever, of the True Explorers of the Minecraftian Universe, even if he had never been to another planet, minus the small time he had spent from birth to his being shipped off to this planet. An alien suit of armor covered his body, cyan in color, and a bright orange visor hid his face. Currently, he was climbing over the prison wall.

"Jason!" called Mitch, the current temporary-warden. "It's okay, buddy! I only want to send sharp arrows through your body until it stops functioning!"

No deal, Jason thought cheerily to himself. This was the first time he'd touched the outside air (figuratively, of course) in three weeks, and he was going to relish it as much as he possible could-

His thoughts were interrupted when the door to the outside gym was opened, and Mitch paused to stare dumbly at the figure ascending the wall.

"'Sup," Jason called from the wall. Mitch's eyes widened and he fumbled to grab his bow and an arrow; Jason took this as his cue, ascending with a much quicker pace. He could hear the strain from the string as it was pulled back just as he hauled himself over the wall; he flung himself over and began his slide down when the arrow flew in a clean arc over his head. He fumbled for a handhold as he fell, grabbing it suddenly and wrenching himself into the wall. He grunted in annoyance and swiftly worked his way down to the ground, until his boots touched the grass. He didn't bother waiting for another cue, turning and sprinting away from the prison, towards where the boat was at, where every prisoner had memorized the location of.

The unnaturally massive tree came into view as he climbed over another hill, accompanied by arrows sailing towards him; none of them came close, of course, as Jason was too far away from Mitch and Mitch was too bad of a shot in general. Jason continued, barely winded, as he was clearly the most athletic of the prisoners, which probably had nothing to do with his alien heritage.

Then the bridge came into view; Jason wasn't sure who had made it, or who kept it in such nice condition, or why the prison hadn't destroyed it or the boat that sat beneath it, but he wasn't complaining. He dashed through it, feet stumbling over the intricate designs carved into the ground and – stumbled to a stop before he ran straight off to his death.

The ladder was gone. A massive drop led to a small, stone platform, with a few pieces of scaffolding dotting the tower, acting as a bored afterthought in its state of simple disassembly.

"When did that happen?" Jason growled aloud, surprising himself slightly.

The bigger surprise came when the arrow slammed into his back. He grunted as he sailed through the air, past the tower, and spiraled straight into the mast of the ship; he passed through it, hearing the cloth of the sail rip and the splintering as the mast separated; then he slammed into the ship's deck and continued to fall, groping blindly for a handhold that wouldn't be there; and then he hit the water.

The water filled his suit, his last lifeline to his home, conquering it through as many routes as it could find; every nook and cranny became filled; his limbs were sluggish and he could not shift them inside the suit, could not perform the action of swimming upward, and briefly he wondered why the simple addition of water made his suit suddenly so heavy. Numbly he realized the water trickling into his mouth, running down his nose from the crack within his visor, an intricate spiderweb of cracks within the orange.

Then everything went black.

* * *

Jason opened his eyes, then shut them sharply as the lights blinded him.

Two thoughts entered his mind.

Where was he? Then:

_Where was his suit?_

He sat up sharply, jerking his eyes open, ignoring the blaring light touching his bare skin. He gulped; the sensation of being separated from his suit was not a fun one. He felt... unsafe. Vulnerable. He stood, shrugging off the heavy woolen blanket that had covered him. He stood, legs wobbly, and he almost collapsed; he rested his weight onto a nearby dresser, groping blindly for the mirror that stood upon it and raising it to his face. A lean, pale stranger stared back at him; he cried out and threw the mirror against a wall, finding small solace in hearing the glass shatter and tinkle down to the ground.

Then the door swung open and the last person he expected to see stepped into the room.

* * *

The prison was in deep celebration; Mitch, however, was not.

When he had returned to the prison, his appearance of utter confidence had shattered when he learned Jason had not respawned at the prison. Under other circumstances he would have cheered along with the other prisoners, but utter despair filled him as he realized that the first ever successful escape from Crafted Prison had been under his watch.

And it was clear that he had escaped, at least to the prisoners; if he had died from the arrow or the impact or drowning he would have respawned in a prison cell. Generic looking officials had combed the prison, inspected every nook and cranny they could find, and yet not even a mention of Jason had been found. So the only explanation was that he had escaped. How, exactly?

That was the part that they couldn't figure out. But it didn't matter; escape is escape, no matter how it is achieved.

Then the summons came from the Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork, and Mitch had almost fainted from horror when he was informed.

Now he sat just outside the Officially Official Warden's Office, which happened to be a very nice place that he would have enjoyed on any other occasion. The carpet was lush and a pretty maroon color; the walls were adorned with paintings and a few blocks of random origin hung within frames. A desk, shoved into the corner, was large and heavy and finely crafted from spruce wood, an intricate chair behind it to match, with papers and quills and ink cluttering the desk. A large, sturdy iron door let into the Officially Official Warden's Office, which could only be opened from inside.

Mitch fidgeted, idly playing with the dog tags around his neck, pulling at them and twirling them around his finger, when suddenly he stopped. Would the Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork think less of him for this idle, almost lazy, movement? Would he see it as a sign of disrespect and boredom, or would he simply pass it off as a casual gesture with no deep meaning behind it? The Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork could be watching him, Mitch realized with horror, courtesy of the small slit within the iron door. He peered upwards, trying to discern if anyone was peering back from the other side, but could not tell if there was a living being right behind the door. He stood, twisted and turned his head, focused his eyes, until he came to the decision that no, the Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork was not watching him through the slit in the door. He sat down, satisfied and calm.

The door opened. Mitch jolted up, spine straight, feet next to each other, body rigid as his hand came up to his forehead in a salute. (Did he bring up the left arm or right arm? Too late, left it is, he decided.)

"Hello, Mister Warden-Who-Does-Paperwork, sir!" he announced in a clear voice, proud of himself for not stumbling over his words. Unless the warden was one of those who found people stumbling over words to be a nice sign of humanity-

"Uh, you don't have to call me sir," the man replied in a high-pitched voice, and it was then that Mitch realized that the man standing before him was not a man, but in fact a melon.

Yes, the Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork was apparently a melon. His skin, head, arms, all melon. He wore a pair of short shorts, offering a view of his long, melon-y legs, a button-up, sky blue shirt with violet flowers printed on it, and a pair of 3D glasses covering whatever eyes he may have.

Mitch was speechless.

"Also," the melon continued, "I'm not the... err, 'Warden-Who-Does-Paperwork', I'm just his assistant."

Oh. That also explained why there was a desk outside of the Officially Official Warden's Office.

"Right," Mitch said slowly. "The warden wanted to see me."

"Mitch?" the melon asked, and Mitch nodded. "Well, I'm still not the warden, mind you, but I'm here to handle your appointment."

"Shouldn't I see the actual warden, though...?" Mitch questioned.

"Nope! Sorry," the melon man added. "The warden, he, uh... doesn't like seeing people. No questions," he added at Mitch's questioning expression, and instantly the Canadian's face contorted into one of shame before being schooled into his calm and collected veneer.

"I'm Bashur. I handle all appointments, and prison duties, and paperwork..."

"So the Warden-Who-Does-Paperwork," Mitch started before he could stop himself, "doesn't actually do the paperwork?" Bashur frowned but nodded slightly. "Huh."

"But that's not the point!" Bashur cried loudly, and Mitch noted his tendency to say things in an _overly loud manner._

"The point is," Bashur continued, "that under _your _watch a prisoner escaped!"

"But I'm a prisoner," Mitch protested.

"So?!"

"So why's it my job to stop myself and the other prisoners from escaping?"

"W-well," Bashur stuttered. "I didn't set up the system!"

"So I'm still a prisoner, but I'm also in trouble for not performing the actions of a warden?" Mitch concluded.

"Exactly!" Bashur agreed. "A prisoner escaped because of you, and," Bashur paused, turning to his desk, and dug up a paper from the messy stack, glancing over it before continuing, "and you are being charged with-"

The door (into the waiting room, not the warden's iron one) flew open. Bashur paused in mid-sentence to look up, then paused, jaw hanging open. Mitch turned and calmly, internally mirrored his surprise.

Jason stood in the doorway silently, full suit and all, orange visor judging them; but the clear difference the pair noted was that now, instead of a nice, light blue color, his suit was painted jet black. Bashur stood agape, and Jason inclined his head towards him before turning away and unceremoniously flinging himself onto the ground below, offering himself to respawn.

"Um, well," Bashur stuttered, "I guess you're free to go? Just... Do a better job warden-ing, okay?"

Mitch bowed his head. "Yes, sir, Not-The-Warden-Who-Does-Paperwork. Sir."


	5. Chapter Four - Jerome

**IV. Jerome**

Jerome was a furry, fluffy bastard, and no one quite knew what race he exactly belonged too.

No one from the prison had ever seen a creature similar to Jerome; there had been no whispers or mentions of the fabled "Bacca" that Jerome stated he was; it would have been a race of fairy tales if Jerome did not exist, much to the anger of prison staff and other curious officials. It took three and a half months to change the laws so they could legally imprison Jerome. (not that they cared all that much, but lying to officials without a bribe rarely ended in a good result.)

Jerome, however, considered himself to be a perfectly normal and incredibly healthy Bacca, one of many of a hidden race with cities dotted all over the land that no human had ever found. (He wasn't about to tell them that, of course.) He was a tall, lean Bacca, though it was hard to tell where fur ended and skin began, and he always wore a crisp, clean suit with a red tie. Brown fur covered his entire body, his eyes were a dark brown and shone with mischief, and hidden within his snout was a set of strong, bright, sharp white teeth. He found friendship in Mitch with ease; the others, not so much. The two were a perfect set of pranksters, but Mitch tended to throw Jerome under the bus to save himself, which Jerome didn't really mind.

And currently he was playing a hilarious game of cat-and-mouse with Warden Sky.

The hostile duo were in the massive library; Jerome would dart out from his nook within a pair of bookshelves, push Sky or kick him or bring his fist down on his helmet, then the Bacca would dart back into another crevice he had mapped out, leaving Sky to sizzle in his own frustration.

It came to an end when Sky heard his footsteps; abruptly the enraged warden turned and slammed the baton into Jerome, sending him flying back. He slammed into the wall and, gasping for breath, stood and stumbled away blindly. Jerome could hear Sky rushing after him, and the Bacca pivoted and turned and stumbled and staggered until he slammed into a bookshelf. He cried out, arms pinwheeling, and then his face met the ground.

He gasped for breath and waited for the pain to subside, then lurched to his feet. He examined the bookshelf he had stumbled into, then paused when a faint noise hit his ears. It sounded vaguely like a human slamming into stone, and briefly he imagined a terrible, secret torture chamber hidden within the prison. Well, as a good, honorable citizen, he decided, it was his duty to investigate, so swiftly he pulled out all of the books on a shelf. When a large enough space had been made, he climbed through.

He stood in the dank, old passage, lined with cracked stone brick and moss covering the walls. He continued on towards the sound, making a turn right and then a set of steps downwards. The sound grew louder, entering his ears and covering up all sounds, until he took another turn and saw two things: the door, made of tarnished and rusted iron, barely standing, and the yellowed, cracked skeleton, missing an arm, which then stood and turned its skull towards him.

The skeleton charged at him, stumbled, fell, then stood and continued its charge.

Jerome ducked under the first swipe of the skeleton's arm, sidestepped the next, and then on the third he grabbed the arm. The skeleton tried to pull away, and sharply, keeping his grip on the arm, he kicked the skeleton. The creature clattered as its arm was separated from the rest of it, and it clattered to the ground. He pounced on the fallen undead, beating it with a mix of claws and old arm bone and even once he bit an ancient rib away which he instantly realized was a horrible idea.

Within another moment the undead was smoking and deteriorating into dust that would never return, and he dropped the smokey arm bone and continued on towards the door as if he had never engaged in short battle. He examined the door, seeing no button or lever and finally spotting a thin, faint wire of redstone leading towards the door. So there would be a hidden button somewhere around here, Jerome realized. In response to this, he grabbed the wide, open slit at the top of the door, and pried it from its hinges, dropping it in disgust to the ground. The sound echoed through the hall and he stepped through, when the sound cut off and something slammed into his face.

Jerome was sent into respawn in utter confusion, and went about the rest of his day, the secret room completely forgotten.

Twenty-two days later, Jerome follow an oddly familiar sound to the mess hall, feeling a sense of deja vu.

He came into the mess hall, and the sound suddenly stopped. A vague memory returned to him and before he knew it, the Bacca had the sword in hand and surveyed the room. It was utterly silent, and Jerome realized he was holding his breath. He looked to his left, saw nothing, spun around to leave and...

….saw the Captain huddled in the corner, a look of fear in his face and something bulging out of his coat.

"Well now, Cap'n," Jerome whistled, a slight grin lighting his features. "Someone's gained some weight. Haven't seen you since I've let you out of your cell, too. You're learning to be a true inmate." The Captain nodded silently, and Jerome tilted his head. "It's almost as if you're hiding something..."

The Captain's brief look of shock confirmed that he was right.

"Come on," Jerome mock-whined with a large grin. "Show me. I won't kill you and destroy it or anything. Probably."

The Captain hesitated, and the Bacca feinted forward with the sword, laughing as the Captain tried to pull away. Finally the man relented, opening up his coat; the tiny, nimble creature leaped out and onto a table.

It was a small, cube shaped creature, with round corners. Its body was a light, lime green color, and its entire form wiggled with every small movement it made. Two beady eyes started intently at him from the top of its body, unblinking, unmoving, judging, and a small mouth rested below it.

Jerome briefly wondered how this creature actually ate.

"This is a slime," the Captain said.

"The fuck is a slime?"

"This is a slime," said the Captain, pointing at the slime.

"But what is a slime?"

"A slime is a mob. It looks like this, though sometimes it gets bigger."

"Uh, okay."

"It lives in caves," the Captain persisted with a new fervor. "It attacks foes by jumping onto them, sucking body parts into their bodies, and then dissolving that within their very dissolve-y skin. A small slime can dissolve the skin off a human in roughly eight seconds."

"Somehow that seems familiar," Jerome pondered.

"Maybe you had a slime as a child."

"No, no, Bacca's don't believe in keeping pets."

"Right. Are you going to kill me now?" questioned the Captain.

"Nah, the other guys are already near the boat," Jerome affirmed. "I think. Anyways, I see no reason to kill you and the slime is cool so that gives you bonus points. Sucks that the Warden-Who-Does-Paperwork will kill it once he finds out."

"I'm sorry?" blurted the Captain.

"It's a prison. No fun allowed. The wardens kill anything that could be considered fun, like pets for example." The look of depression on the Captain's face brought forth a pang of sympathy for the man, and he added, "The warden can't kill a mob if he doesn't know about it, however."

The slime leaped into the Captain's hands, and the two hugged each other even if the slime oozed out of the Captain's arms and had to reform into its shape on the ground.

"We should name it," Jerome declared, and the Captain looked up at him. "Something silly and unoriginal. Like 'Ed' or 'Matt' or something completely unfitting for an animal. I learned from humans, see? What gender is that thing, anyways?"

"I don't think slimes have genders," the Captain replied.

"Right. Something dumb... let's see. Fluffy. We can name it Fluffy."  
"What? No. They never even grow fur!"

"But he'd be named after me."

"No."

"Okay, fine." He thought for a moment before throwing out, "What about Harry?"

"No!" Then, after a moment, he produced the incredibly original name, proclaiming, "Jerry!"

"Why Jerry?"

"Why not Jerry?"

"Touche."

And thus the slime was dubbed Jerry. A moment later, the round ended, the two men were reduced to void-smoke and sent into the glorious gamble of round change, and the newly named slime Jerry hopped away to find a nice place to rest. Assuming slimes sleep, that is.


	6. Chapter Five - Steven

**V. Steven**

Steven was happy.

Steven lived a quiet, peaceful life; he was usually alone, minus the times the men in white entered the room and talked to him slowly as if he was a dumb puppy. He had everything he could ever want: a nice, large, comfortable bed (white, of course, like everything in the room); a bookshelf filled with, surprisingly, dozens of books, all bound in white, the only spark of uniqueness the ever fanciful titles; a small, pale chest filled with dozens of toys and figures and the like, the only color that would ever graze the room besides himself.

Steven himself considered himself to be a very normal twenty-one year old man. His dark brown hair, almost a nice black, was short and combed and never fell out of his places; his eyes were dark enough to match his hair. His shirts consisted of horizontal blue and white stripes, and along with that he wore a pair of dark blue trousers. (This was the entirety of his wardrobe, but he didn't really care.) His skin was pale, a sickly pale that had not seen the sun for years, but he was very living and active and he didn't really understand why the men in white were worried about him so.

All in all, his life was perfect.

That all changed when the man in orange and green arrived.

He sat on the bed when it happened, flipping through a book lazily and waiting for the men in white to enter and offer him some new books. He yawned, planting a hand over his mouth, and dropped the book onto the bed, lazing back. His eyes began to flutter closed, and he wrenched them open again, willing himself to be awake when the men in white came in.

Then the building shook with an explosion.

He yelped, jumping up and staggering as the building came to a stop. Then another explosion, and he was thrown onto his feet, and he screamed at the unfamiliar sensations. He crawled over to his bed, trying to inch under it, but of course it was bolted to the floor like always. He stood, dusting off his pants (even though there was no dust; he just thought it was cool) and glanced around the room. The sound of feet pounding against the ground and raised voices could be heard just outside the room, then something heavy slamming into the door. After a moment, the man stepped through.

He wore armor fashioned out of some type of scales; the top half was a bright orange color, covering his entire torso, starting from waist, and coming up into a hood to cover the man's head. His trousers were a bright green, and the gauntlets on his arms, coming up to his elbows, shared the color. His hair was hidden, but his eyes were a dark brown, and a golden amulet with violet center sat around his neck.

The thing that attracted Steven's attention, however, was the dangerous looking golden trident gripped in his hands, pulsing with power from the runes etched into it.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said coolly, "but we need to 'borrow' you for a bit."

Steven stayed in a state of blindness throughout the entire trip; right after the strange man's dramatic sentence, he was knocked unconscious and dragged away. When he awoke, he was moving at a fast pace, a blindfold fastened around his eyes. He tried to speak, but silently the strange men poured something down his throat and this time, much more peacefully, he drifted off to a blissful state of sleep.

When he awoke, the blindfold was gone, however, and he sat in a large, colorful bed. Then he realized: the color! The walls were painted a nice, aqua blue, bright fish occasionally added in. The floor tiles were a checkerboard of orange and white; the dresser near his bed was the lovely color of spruce wood. And the bed! The oak frame, the dark blue pillows, the heavy, scarlet blanket. The ceiling was a pale shade of white, and a strange light was fixed into it. He stood, stretching his legs and arms and letting a groan escape his lips.

He stood there dumbly for a second, before the door swung open, and the man in orange and green stepped inside. He looked the same, except that now he had the trident slung over his back. He stepped into the room, grinning amiably, and offered a hand to Steven. Steven stared back at it, and in return the man shrugged and let it drop to his side.

"Steven, yes?" the man asked, and Steven nodded. "Perfect. I am Taylor, King of Atlantis."

Meanwhile, only a single soul from Crafted Prison had something to do with this meeting, and he offered no visible sign that he even knew it was going on.

Anyone peering into the prison at the moment would have been disgusted. A short haired young adult, stuck within a cell, in full armor, waved a vicious looking sword around lazily, yelling half-serious threats at the prisoners who danced below. He made no real effort to get out, simply pacing throughout the cell slowly while the prisoners freely frolicked and laughed and taunted each other and the temporary warden stuck in a cell due to Sky and Jerome's clever trickery.

But the worst part of it, the not-theoretical theoretical observers noted, was that everyone within view seemed to be having true, unrestricted _fun._

"This won't do," _tsk_-ed the one with the red tie.

"Not at all," agreed the green one.

"We should do something," suggested the red horned one.

"How could we do that?" asked Red-Tie.

"Possibly call someone official," offered the green one.

"An inspector!" cried Red-Horns.

"Perfect!" agreed Green-One.

"An inspector!" repeated Red-Tie.

"Let us go at once!" Red-Horns proclaimed. The other two strange creatures chorused assent, and together the three turned and hurried off.

* * *

Double post today because I'm an idiot and forgot to post yesterday, and even then I feel this chapter is rather unsatisfying.


	7. Chapter Six - Seto the Sorcerer

**VI. The Sorcerer**

Seto was not fit for prison.

He was a short man, with pale skin and soft, pink lips. His brown eyes shone brightly with intelligence, and his brown hair was covered by his black and purple hood. He wore armor on normal occasions, dark chain-mail with the Red Creeper insignia thrown onto the front chest, to signify his membership in a secret society that the author cannot tell you about because it is secret. His voice was silkily-smooth, and he was a master of the mostly lost art of magic and potion making. All in all, while he didn't quite rule himself as "soft", he could not fit into the prison crowd.

That was why his deal with the warden was so perfect. He made all types of potions and enchantments for the warden and the prison in general; in return, the warden provided space for him to make potions and enchantments for the prison. A perk of this was that he slept in his workroom, which sported a large, comfortable cot; but the more important part of this was that he had a room all to his own.

Potion making was a difficult process. One ground up different supplies into a bowl (if you didn't measure it correctly, the potion would amount to nothing) and evenly distribute the ground up powder into a bottle. The three bottles were then placed at a potion making station, which provided water for the powder to mix into and heat to offer the potion its color and magical properties. That's how he figured it worked, anyways; he wasn't completely sure, but he did know "throw things into bottle, place bottle at station, get potion," had worked so far and didn't seem to stop working, so he just went with it.

Enchanting was significantly harder, however. One took the weapon, armor or tool that they wanted to enchant and placed it over an enchantment table. (a magical table made of obsidian and diamond, with an ancient book displayed upon it.) One then took a chisel and hammer and, all while pulling power from the book and pushing it into the tool with an ancient chant, chiseled the runes into the tool. It took hours to finish a tool, and by the end of it Seto was exhausted and bored and simply wanted nothing more than to go to bed.

But, man, that room.

So Seto worked without complaint, enchanting a single tool a day and offering about half a dozen potions to go along with that. It was tiring work, and no one ever offered a second glance to him, but he didn't really mind that; silently he continued to work with the magic, slowly adding to the prison armory and laughing at the prisoners along with the wardens and making life in prison as luxurious as he possibly could.

Yet however great his situation may be, he could not resist his curiosity, and the next time he saw the melon man Bashur, he asked, "By the way, Bashur, when am I getting released?"

"Oh, right," Bashur said absentmindedly. He gathered up the potions precariously into the case, then lowered the newly enchanted iron pickaxe before snapping it shut. "C'mon, I'll check the release dates again."

The two walked to Bashur's office, just outside the warden's own office. When they entered, Bashur lowered the case near his desk, then began flipping through the papers, searching in vain. After a moment, he pulled out a file filled to the brim. He opened it, leafing through it, and finally found one, letting out a "Ah!" sound, before pulling the paper up to his face and reading.

"Let's see," he drawled, stringing out the "e" sound. "Your release date is scheduled for never."

Seto, who had been listening intently, took a moment to register the answer, before spluttering out a, "I'm sorry, when was that?"

"You're never being released," Bashur replied as if it was not big deal, dropping the paper and file back into the sea of paper. "Don't feel bad! No one ever leaves, really. The officials always prolong the release dates, anyways."

"Wha- but..." Seto flailed his hand blindly. "But I've been doing so much for this prison! I've almost single-handedly filled the prison armory! Hell, how long have we even been here, anyways?"

Bashur sighed in annoyance, filing through the papers before offering, "I have no idea. "

"_What do you mean you have no idea?"_

"I don't know," Bashur said mildly. "A few years, maybe?" he offered.

"There's no way it could have been a few years!"

"I'm pretty sure it's been a few years."

"No," Seto murmured, sinking into the nearest chair, holding his head in his hands. "No, no no, there's no way," he moaned.

"Uh," Bashur said timidly. "You can go back to your cell now, and get back to your job, I guess."

Seto's eyes flashed with rage, and he staggered up, mouth wide, ready to scream, before he paused. He collected himself, breathing in deeply and slowly, returning to calm and collected, before wordlessly turning and stalking out of Bashur's office. The melon man simply watched in confusion at the out of character outburst.

Seto did not create any more enchantments or potions that day; he tossed the bag of tools he had been given to enchant to the corner; in a rage he smashed the bottles and shoved the potion making ingredients into the corner. (For even in his anger, he knew destroying the ingredients was a horrible waste and the prison would punish him severely, discounting his own guilt from the act.) He considered ripping up the book from the enchantment table, but for the same reason as the potion ingredients he did not touch it, just simply shoved the table into the corner near the bag and then he undressed and sat in his underclothes in his bed for the day, lounging around throughout the rest of the day. Eventually the cool of night came, and he shifted and pushed himself into the bed and drifted off to the grateful embrace of sleep.

He awoke sometime later, confused and disoriented. It was still dark, and he could not see much, but something had seemed to awoken him. He groaned in annoyance, throwing the blankets off and pulling on his heavy socks and boots, and stumbled throughout the room in boots and breeches, finding nothing. What a silly reason to get out of bed, he yawned to himself silently, and he spun around and headed back to bed, when suddenly the door creaked open.

His eyes darted open, and he almost quickened his breathing. But he was a paranoid man, and he knew a change in his breath would alert any intruders, and so he forced his breath to remain at the same slow, solid pace. A pair of heavy footsteps sounded throughout the room, pacing quietly and unmistakably towards him. He resisted the urge to tense and jump up and lash out at the stranger, and soon the intruder paused near his bed. There was a pause; he could not remain patient much longer, and was close to acting when a familiar voice spoke.

"So sorry to bother you like this."

He sprang up, eyes ripping open, and he kicked out at the figure. The intruder made no noise, dancing back, and suddenly Seto flew off the bed, slamming into the ground hard, groaning. His head pounded, but he stumbled up, before letting out a small groan as a wave of sharp pain filled his right foot. He raised it slightly, turning it, balancing on a single foot, and noticed a nasty stream of blood pouring from an open wound. His eyes widened in surprise when he realized that the intruder was undoubtedly trying to kill him.

This was a losing situation, he knew, but then briefly remember the prospect of respawn. What was the intruder trying to accomplish? he wondered. Did the man not know of respawn, or did he simply want to settle a short grudge the man had held? He had not angered anyone recently, besides the possibility of Bashur, but the melon man would've stood out easily with is bright skin color. He forced himself to plant his injured foot onto the ground, wincing, underestimating the extent of the wound, when he realized the intruder was not in his sight. He had taken too long, he realized in horror, spinning around and slipping on his blood.

The intruder impaled him with an unimpressive stabbing maneuver using an iron blade. Before his eyes glazed and he succumbed to respawn, he noticed a brief flash of orange on the intruder, and briefly wondered how he had missed that.

Maybe a form of invisibility potion, he theorized before he let respawn take him.

A day later, Bashur noticed that no tools or potions had come from Seto that day. He wondered if it had anything to do with his truthful statement the last day, and he briefly felt bad for the sorcerer. He resolved to make it up to the man, striding confidently to the man's cell. But when he arrived there, he found him utterly gone.

After a thorough and complete inspection of the prison, Seto was absolutely nowhere to be found. In fact, nothing about Seto could be found besides his set of armor, still discarded on the floor, and the blood from Seto staining the ground near his bed.


	8. Chapter Seven - SSundee

**VII. SSundee**

SSundee treasured his glasses above all other possessions, emotions and friendships.

What could be better than glasses made specifically to protect your eyes from the sun? he had reason to himself constantly. Nothing, that's what, he then concluded. And so thus his sunglasses remained within his possession at all times, whether it be on his face or planted within a coat pocket or hanging in between his teeth. Even when sleeping or bathing or fighting or competing, he always had his sunglasses on his person.

Even when Crafted Prison erupted into speculation of the second escape in Crafted Prison history, both within the same month, he only cared about the sunglasses.

The fact that his were not the only sunglasses within the prison did not bother him; in fact, it made him much happier to know that others shared the same glory that were his sunglasses. He often found sunglasses-formed companionship with Sky, and congratulated the Captain on his first step towards true bliss within life.

So of course, even temporary and permanent wardens, avoided him like the plague when his sunglasses went missing.

The day started off normally; SSundee awoke, yawning and stretching and dressing quickly. But when he reached into his left coat pocket, he realized quickly that his sunglasses were gone.

He went into a blind rage.

He was a tall, muscled man; his hair was light brown and his face was graced with the gift of facial hair. His eyes were a blueish-gray, and one happened to laze around in the socket while the other was attentive and elite. His glorious sunglasses usually inherited his face, but, as stated, they were not in his possession at the moment. His clothes were nice and expensive; black trousers, black coat over a soft navy blue tunic, and pale, white boots.

He strode through the prison, eying each empty cell with rage and suspicion. They were all conspiring, he knew. They had all planned and plotted in secret to steal his sunglasses, and now they were all hiding, afraid to confront him after the crime took place. He howled in rage, fists flying into the air, and slammed his fist into the nearest wall. A small crack formed, but he did not pursue the block breaking, instead turning with a murderous fury and stalking towards the warden's office.

It took him half a dozen seconds to arrive at the warden's office; briefly he wondered how the architecture of the prison actually worked, and where the warden's office actually was in comparison to the cells and fake warden's office, but he discarded it as pointless and a distraction in his quest for the sunglasses.

He slammed his arm against the door, screaming at the Not-The-Warden-Who-Did-Paperwork to open up and surrender his sunglasses. Bashur, tactfully, did not speak to SSundee, but instead called out to someone else in the locked office:  
"Sky! Give your damn glasses to SSundee!"

"What?" Sky replied in astonishment. "No!"

"Why not?" Ty responded in anger.

"They're _my _sunglasses, not his!" Sky returned.

"What does it matter?" asked Jerome. "He's going to _kill us _if you don't hand over the sunglasses!"

"Then I'd rather die with my sunglasses then live without," Sky said.

"But you can get a new pair later!" Bashur protested.  
"Well we probably wouldn't die if _the damn actual warden would let us into his office_!"

"Well he can't," Bashur replied.

"Why not?"

"Because reasons."

SSundee slammed into the door once again. It shifted, offering a pitiful moan as its hinges squealed and barely held.

"We're gonna die!" someone screamed from inside.

"Wait, why isn't the temp-warden doing something?" questioned Mitch. Everyone remained silent, before a barrage of conversation overpowered the sound of SSundee trying to pry the door off of its hinges.

"I completely and utterly refuse," stated Ty, the temporary warden at the time.

"We're all going to die, though," said Jerome.

"But we have respawn."

"But respawn isn't fun to go through."

The door bent, and SSundee began to pull himself through; he got stuck halfway into the room, and began clawing wildly at anyone nearby. Everyone pushed against the far wall, before collectively the prisoners shoved Ty forward.

"H-hey SSundee," Ty stuttered. "We can work this o-out, right?"

SSundee clutched the walls to his side and heaved himself through the small opening. With a feral snarl, he launched himself at the temp-warden, who stumbled back in fright. He tried to stumble back into the crowd of prisoners, but each one of the inmates resisted, shoving him mercilessly towards the madman. Ty accepted his defeat, pulling free the diamond sword and uncertainly stepping towards SSundee. The two locked eyes for a moment; then, with a small war cry, Ty launched himself at the inmate. The sword flashed down past SSundee, who lashed out with his foot, kicking Ty's unprotected wrist. The young man cried out, before a fist came in contact with his nose, and Ty stumbled back, clutching at the newly-bloodied necessity.

SSundee stooped down and snagged the sword from the floor; with a single smooth movement, he dashed towards the disoriented temp-warden. Ty lashed out wildly, missing SSundee by a mile, and with a swift strike SSundee ran him through, sending him to respawn instantly.

"We are indeed going to die," Sky concluded.

The prisoners scattered wildly, working under the logic that if SSundee could not catch them all, he could not kill them all. SSundee disagreed, slashing out wildly with the sword; Jerome stumbled away with a missing arm, and Mitch hit the ground with a hole in his heart. Bashur dived under the desk, praying that SSundee would not notice him; the inmate did not, instead targeting the silently terrified Captain. With a quick sword strike, the Captain fell to the ground with a nasty wound in his neck, bleeding profusely but still alive.

Then SSundee turned and located Sky. With a roar he dashed after the man, forgetting any previous friendships and instead noticing only the blatantly stolen sunglasses on his face. He swung the blade, and it grazed the man's arm. Blood began to trickle out of it, and SSundee smashed the hilt of the blade into Sky's head; the man dropped to the ground, dazed.

"You stole my sunglasses!" he accused; Sky quickly shook his head in an attempt to dismiss this notion.

"N-no, of course I didn't!" Sky replied. Eyes blazing, SSundee raised the blade to impale the man and reclaim his property...

"S-SSundee!" someone called timidly. The named man turned in fury, spotting the Captain on the floor pitifully.

"Check your right pocket."

SSundee scoffed at the downed man, but before he could realize it the blade lowered and his hand strayed to the pocket mentioned. Expecting nothing but an amateur distraction, he dropped the sword in surprise when his glorious sunglasses were then in his hand. In confusion, he turned to look at the downed Sky; indeed, the man still wore his sunglasses, and with SSundee's sunglasses in his hands, that made two pairs of sunglasses; logically, the ones he held were his own. He placed them in front of his eyes with a bright smile.

"Thanks so much!" he called to the downed Captain, strolling happily out of Bashur's office, leaving the two prisoners to sit in dumb confusion before they bled to death.

"I hate you all," cried Bashur from beneath his desk.

* * *

Unedited because I'm really busy right now. Apologies.


	9. Chapter Eight - Jerry the Slime

**VIII. Jerry**

The ball shook on its thin wire, and the paper that came spiraling down read "The Captain."

Unlike other inmates, however, the Captain did not feel a sense of pride and joy swell up inside his afterlife-form. Instead, dread and anxiety filled him, as this was, surprisingly, his first time as the temporary warden in Crafted Prison. He wasn't really sure what to do, in all honesty; the other inmates acted so crazily and differently each time they acted as warden, and he really wasn't sure what his duty was besides "stop fellow inmates from escaping" and "don't take the opportunity to escape yourself."

He spawned in, taking a moment to adjust himself to living again, before donning himself in the heavy armor; he grunted and struggled to breathe in it, taking a moment to adjust to the new armor. Thank goodness for world physics, he thought to himself, and then he strapped on the sword belt and swung the quiver and box over the back of his box; hesitantly pressing the button, he was thrown into his warden duties.

"Took you long enough," Mitch grumbled from a cell instantly. "Come on, a _whole minute _and thirty-seven seconds have passed. Step your game up."

The Captain ignored him, taking a moment to take note of where each prisoner was. He hesitated on what to do for too long, as Jerome innocently called, "Start by letting us all out and giving us all of your gear."

The Captain also ignored him, starting by slowly letting each prisoner trickle out of their cell. He gathered them all up into a group, confidently offering a short instruction of their movement, and began to lead them off to the mess hall.

Pandemonium erupted in an instant.

Prisoners scattered past him swiftly; before he could react, someone had slammed into his chest and thrown him to the ground. He grunted as he struggled to rise, the armor weighing him down, and he spun around quickly. Three inmates remained: Jason, Sky and Ty stood behind him, cheerfully waving him on. He pointed to Jason.

"You. Help me. Please," he asked pitifully, and Jason shrugged, then nodded. He gestured to the nearest room, not bothering to look at the sign, and said, "Ty, Sky, stay in there. Please."

The two pairs went their respective ways; Ty and Sky stepped into the shower room, and Sky quickly flopped onto a cold, stone bench and stretched out.

"Man," Sky mumbled. "Do we actually have to work for our goals today?"

"I'm afraid so," Ty replied, leaning against a wall (but just enough that it didn't crease his shirt.)

The two rested in the room for a while; occasionally, an inmate or the Captain would dash by, barely offering the room a second glance. Eventually Sky let out a sigh, heaving himself off of the bench, stretching his stiff muscles. He gestured to Ty.

"We should get to it now, right?" he asked.

Ty nodded, a grin forming on his face. Sky marched out of the room, looking both ways and spotting no one. Confidently, he turned around to see his good friend absolutely no-one behind him. He grimaced, peeking back into the room and spotting Ty twitching on the floor. The corpse disappeared into dust, and Sky let out a confused cry of alarm, shoving himself into the corner and scanning the room for the threat, asking himself the age old question, "Fight or flight?"

Ty returned lazily a moment later. Sky glanced questioningly at him, and the man simply gestured at him to follow. Ty led Sky over to where his corpse used to lay, and, carefully, peeked around the bench to spot his murderer, a tiny, lime, rounded cube with two eyes and what they presumed to be a mouth.

"The fuck is that?" Sky questioned.

"No idea," Ty replied. "But I do know that it killed me. Quite painful, I might add."

"We should keep it."

"Definitely."

At that moment, Mitch dashed into the room, panting slightly, sweat beginning to form on his forehead. He raised a finger to his lips in the universal sign for silence; Sky gave him a thumbs up in reply. Flashing a grateful smile, Mitch gingerly stepped into the warm bath and submerged himself completely in the water, laying at the bottom. Without closer inspection, he was relatively hidden.

A moment later the Captain stumbled in, panting heavily, sweat beading his face. The sword he held dangled out of his hand precariously as he bent over to recover his breath. After a moment, he stood again and asked, "Either of you... see Mitch?"

"Nope," Sky replied casually. "We have found a weird cube thing, though."

The weird cube thing hopped up in response, _sploosh_-ing onto the bench once again. The Captain's eyes widened as he recognized the small creature.

"Where'd you find Jerry?" the Captain demanded.

"Who's Jerry?" asked Ty in legitimate confusion.  
"That slime," responded the Captain, indicating the slime.

"The hell is a slime?" said Sky.

"That's a slime."

"But what _is _a slime?"

"That."

"Oh," said Sky, deflated.

"But that's not important," decided the Captain. "Where'd you find him?"

"He killed Ty," said Sky casually. "We decided to keep him. But you've already kept him. You should do a better job of keeping him, by the way."

"So you won't tell the warden?" asked the Captain.

"Nah," said Ty, waving him off. "It's cool. Hope it doesn't murder me again, but don't worry, we won't tell the Warden-Who-Does-Paperwork. Right, Sky?"

"Yeah, right," agreed Sky.

"Thank you," the Captain said with a gracious smile. "But-" The temp-warden was interrupted when someone turned into the room; Jerome's triumphant boast was cut off when he spotted the warden. After a short moment, the Bacca turned and quickly fled the room, the Captain following with a short yell.

After another moment, Mitch rose from the bath, water cascading from him as he gasped for air. Sky grinned at him, in return to the Canadian's piercing glare.

"I almost drowned!" Mitch growled, pulling himself out of the water. "I hate drowning."

"Don't blame us," pouted Sky. "We were just having an innocent conversation with the warden. Look, see? We found a slime."

"Can I kill it?" asked Mitch.

"What? No! It's kind of cute, when it's not murdering people."

"But it's against the rules," argued Mitch. "In fact, I should just turn it into the Warden-Who-Does-Paperwork. I'd probably get a reward, anyways. You two could, two," he added.

"It's not against the rules if they don't know about it," Ty put in.

"I'm pretty sure that's not true."

"No, no," Sky said, "I can assure you it is completely true."

What the three inmates did not notice, however, was Jerry inching over to Mitch. How the three grown men, with perfectly fine ears, did not notice the rather loud, lime square that could only move by jumping and sploshing back onto the ground, the world will never know; either way, Jerry the slime leaped up into the air, straight towards Mitch. The Canadian cried out in alarm, cutting off his next sentence, and he stumbled back in an attempt to avoid the slime; but Jerry's physiology was not to be deterred, and the slime stuck quickly and stubbornly to Mitch's wet shirt. Mitch stopped, trying to shove the slime off of him, but quickly the fabric of his shirt began to dissolve; then his hand became stuck in Jerry, and he screamed and jerked it free.

It did not, however, come alone; a few small droplets flew free from the slime, one flying in an arc and straight into Mitch's eye.

The man howled and jerked back – straight into position to fall into the bath, slime and all.

Mitch flailed around in the water, raising a racket that could raise the undead. Finally the slime came free, and he leaped out of the water, stumbling into a wall. He spit out some water and shook himself like a wet dog, ignoring the sarcastic clapping from the other two prisoners. He turned to glare at the cube, now resting in the bath, unmoving. Sky and Ty took this moment to step over to the bath, eying the slime with confusion.

"Do you think it likes water?" Sky asked.

"I hope it drowns!" growled Mitch.

Jerry gave no indication to the three prisoners, instead simply sitting stoically. Instead, he completely accepted the water filling him, and did not attempt to move when his color began to mix with the aqua of the water, and when his form began to swell and enlarge. Ty scratched his head in confusion.

"Is this normal?" he asked.

"Dunno," Sky said. "Not like I'm a slime expert."

By this point, Mitch had joined them at the edge of the bath; the trio peered at the odd creature as it swelled. The top of Jerry peeked above the surface of the water, and yet the slime still refused to budge even an inch.

"I guess water makes slimes bigger," said Mitch.

Jerry exploded.

The three men shrieked in unison as the slime forcefully separated into many pieces. The majority of the creature fell flat, dumping itself into the water and dissolving, but a soggy, deformed ball landed at their feet. The three stumbled back, away from the dead Jerry, breathing heavily out of shock.

"My promotion," moaned Mitch.

"It's dead," Sky said flatly. "We just killed the current warden's personal pet."

"We also killed my_ promotion!_" Mitch repeated.

"Erm, Mitch," Ty prompted. "Does the Captain happen to be a vengeful man?"

"How would I know?" scoffed Mitch.

"Because you collect all the strengths and weaknesses of potential enemies, which includes everyone in the prison."

Mitch stayed silent for a moment, before relenting, "Pretty vengeful."

"We're fucked, aren't we?" asked Sky.

"Pretty much."

"Hey," Ty said. "All we have to do is avoid the Captain like the plague until his term is up."

"Mitch you're a wily bastard y'know that?!" the Captain proclaimed as he entered the room. He raised the baton in his hand, gasping for air from the constant running, before he paused, looking around the room. Ty, attempting to be subtle and failing greatly, shifted to hide the deformed slime ball from the Captain.

"Where's Jerry?"

"He, uh," stammered Sky, "he, uh, went to visit his family."

"He went to visit his family," the Captain repeated flatly.

"Yep. Slime family. Up in the northern part of the country. Hurry and you can probably catch him."

"I feel like you're bullshitting me," the Captain said.

"Nope I _look Jerome's behind you!"_

The Captain half-turned in surprise, and Sky took the opportunity; he lunged forward, hands outstretched, and pushed the Captain. The warden stumbled, cried out, and collapsed to the ground; the trio of prisoners took the chance and all fled from the washroom. They scattered like a flock of birds, Mitch dashing towards the stairs leading to the workout area, Ty branching off to hide in the cells, and Sky hurrying to the library. The Captain struggled out of the washroom; pushing himself off the floor, he dashed after Sky.

"I didn't kill your pet!" Sky screamed behind him. In response, an arrow flew by him, missing his head by inches. His sprint increased, legs pounding, and he feinted to make for a solitary cell; an arrow flew by him, _clang_-ing into a door audibly. Then he reached the library, and lost himself within the maze of books.

He schooled his breathing into low gasps spaced evenly apart, ghosting between bookshelves, peering through every crack to find his antagonist. At one point he spotted the Captain, eyes hard, baton clutched in his hand. He edged away, holding his breath.

The floorboards creaked beneath him.

He swore as the Captain turned.

Then he ran.

He delved back into the canopy of literature, the sounds of the Captain's labored pursuit following him. He dashed around bookshelves, ducking between small spaces and abusing his knowledge of the prison to its fullest extent.

The Captain pursued him relentlessly.

The chase could not go on for an infinite amount of time, however; eventually, Sky was doomed to be caught, or the Captain would tire before he could catch his quarry, and the mouse would slip into the cracks of obscurity. The former happened before the latter, however; Sky rounded a sharp turn and ran straight into the furious warden. He was moving before his brain told him too; yet he was not fast enough, as the baton flashed forward and slammed into his ribcage, tossing him backwards effortlessly. He landed on the ground with a _thud_, breath being expelled forcefully from him. He grunted as he struggled up, pitifully glancing around to find an escape route. The nearest one seemed to be the shelf, near the floor, cleared of books; a dank, old passage of stone lay beyond it.

Taking a chance, he crawled through the empty shelf before the Captain could recover his wits and bow.

He pulled himself to sanctuary just in time; a wild arrow careened through the opening, spinning wildly and slamming to a stop. A moment later a brother followed, separating a fine looking novel from the shelf and bring a few others down with it. Sky did not hesitate a moment longer, sprinting down the dark corridor.

It was a long, dusty corridor, filled with many sudden twists and sharp turns. He coughed and gasped for breath throughout the entire ordeal, stumbling and staggering and barely managing to keep his feet. Behind him he could hear the labored gasps of the Captain, and he knew he was not alone in the effort it took to swiftly navigate the corridors.

s_ploosh, sploosh_

Eventually he was forced to a stop, and he paused momentarily by an old, iron door ripped out of the doorway. He leaned against the wall as sweat cascaded down his face, trying to force air into his lungs. Eventually he rose, hearing the sound of the Captain drawing near, and he stepped through the doorway.

_Sploosh, sploosh, sploosh!_

The room beyond was dark, and he dashed inside. It was a circular, squat room, with a low ceiling, and an odd sound emanating from the center. Tentatively he stepped forward, recognizing the sound slightly. He stepped to the center, peering down the steep incline within...

_Sploosh! SPLOOSH!_

A giant clan of slimes stared back at him, varying in size; the smallest was just slightly smaller than Jerry, and the largest was almost big enough to fit into an entire cell. An idea formed in his head, and he snatched up the smallest, ignoring the angered _sploosh! _from the rest of the slimes within.

The Captain entered the room and doubled over, chest heaving as he gasped for air. When he managed to rise again a minute later, face red, he was met with Sky grinning innocently and holding the slime out in front of him, ignoring the creature burning through his gloves and his skin.

"See?" he said. "I told you. Jerry was just visiting friends."

"Then why... why'd you... run so much..?" the Captain panted.

"Don't ask questions!" affirmed Sky innocently. "See? You wouldn't want to rip Jerry away from his family reunion, now would you-"

"Wait," said the Captain suspiciously. "Is it friends or family?"

"Don't ask questions!" repeated Sky in a mock-hurt tone.

_SLOOSH!_

The gigantic slime leaped up from its position, its _sploosh _a sound of pure, unbridled rage. It landed on the two Minecrafters, absorbing the smaller slime into itself.

_The Warden has been eliminated. The prisoners have won the round._

"You know," said the Captain meekly from the afterlife. "I don't think I like slimes anymore."


	10. Chapter Nine - Husky the Mudkip

**IX. Husky the Mudkip**

Born a misfit. Ex-communicated from his clan. Thrown in prison for unjust reasons. Treated as the butt of the joke by all his fellow prisoners for years.

All in all, Husky the Mudkip had not had a fun life.

Husky was the result of some convoluted one-night stand between a fairly human-like Swampert and an oddly lustful Minecrafter. Born by the Swampert, which left him alone with the clan a month after birth, he was an outcast; he was much more humanoid than the average Mudkip, and already preferred walking on two legs than four; he lacked the ability to use the abilities his kin did, such as shooting water from his mouth. He tried his very best but in the end could not even manage to evolve, no matter what he tried. He was the ugly duckling, the one that never turned into the beautiful goose.

As soon as he was considered an adult Mudkip, he was thrust out of the clan and into the Minecrafter world. Stuck as an outsider from both fronts, he tried his best to fit in and mingle into the flow of normal life, but yet he could not fit in on either front.

Eventually he was thrown into prison for "indecent exposure"; the officers that apprehended him would not listen to his reasoning, that a wild Charmeleon had challenged him to a battle and that was why his suit was destroyed, and anyways that he was a Mudkip, not a Minecrafter, and it was incredibly common and not illegal for a Mudkip to not wear clothes.

They would not listen.

Crafted Prison was no better; he was usually at the end of Jerome's and Mitch's and Sky's cruel pranks, constantly laughed at by his peers and superiors, consistently thrown into humiliating situations that caused his fury to grow silently within him, and yet he never spoke out, never retaliated, for a lifetime of submission had made him expect nothing different, and rarely if ever did he entertain the thought of responding to the constant practical jokes.

Rarely until today, of course, for he decided that he was tired of the pranks and jokes and humiliation, and that for once in his lifetime he would stand up for himself!

As he stepped out of his cell confidently the next day for the first round, a bucket of slime tumbled down from the door and landed on his head. Jerome bent over and laughed furiously; all notions of retaliation were overtaken by shame. He threw the bucket off and sulked back into his cell quietly.

That was generally a weekly occurrence for him, although the trick was usually more original and less cliché than this. The prank was followed by a few hours of shame and timid quietness, followed by a burning feel for vengeance and wrath as soon as the sun went down. The next day, the entire process repeated itself.

This was not a fun process, Husky mused often, yet he did nothing to stop it.

He reflected upon this lack of action as he was battered around lazily by the current warden, Ty. He knew his suffering continued to spawn form nothing but his own lack of ambition, and he continuously resented and rejected this fact.

A strangely savage blow from the baton knocked him from his thoughts as he was forced to cut through the air. He grunted as he flopped onto the ground roughly, moaning softly. He rubbed at his sore chin, grunting as he struggled to rise, head swimming and swirling with dizziness. He bent over, waiting for the nausea to fade, not noticing the sound of the floor beneath him losing its struggle against his weight.

_CRACK!_

Husky shifted, looking down at the ground in alarm. In response, the floor beneath him disappeared.

He screamed as he fell; it was a short distance, falling past the rocks that swiftly became rougher, as the light faded and the darkness overwhelmed him. The sound of the old floor splashing into a liquid sounded beneath him; then he was enveloped in water.

Water, he realized with quick relief. Even as the intrusive liquid filled his suit and shoes and every free space that they could, he felt the cool refreshment of his home domain. He opened his eyes, almost shouting with glee as he stretched and swam around boastfully. Unlike his other humanoid companions, the water was his domain, and he could dance through it smoothly, easily go with the flow of the current or push against it; he could not fail within water. Maybe the Minecrafters were jealous, he pondered, and that was one of the reasons they hated him.

Eventually he was forced to surface, much to his inner disappointment. He rose above the water, pulling himself free into the miniature cave, more of a large alcove, really. He shook the water off him; while it flew free of his skin, it stubbornly remained within his suit. He shrugged it off as unimportant.

Blanketed by a pile of dust and ash and rocks and pebbles, a lifeless skeleton sat. It did not rise as an undead, which was a common occurrence if a mostly-permanently-dead spirit did not like the location of the host form. Tattered overalls covered a hole-filled scarlet shirt; a pair of goggles, one lens horribly cracked and the other missing completely, sat in its lap. The red helmet that sat on his head, covered in cobwebs, was viciously dented; the bones were old and cracked and one leg bone was twisted horribly. Within its grasp laid a pick, shatter remnants of the stone that adorned it sleeping nearby; a small chest rested near his feet. Curiously, Husky slowly stepped towards the skeleton, poking at it once, before leaving the crumbling bones to examine the chest. He flipped open the lid with ease, as it offered no resistance.

As he beheld what lay inside, a wicked idea began to form in his mind.

The inmates of Crafted Prison did not notice the Mudkip's absence; or, even if they did, they truly did not care that Husky had eluded their grasp. He was fully out of their minds, and when Ty noticed that the Mudkip had escaped him, he simply left to find another target to play around with. It was how the prison normally treated him, honestly, and at this rate it wasn't going to change anytime soon.

As far as they knew, anyways, Husky said with a low, dark chuckle to himself. Any watcher would have described his manner as "sinister," and they wouldn't be that far off. He found a dark glee whenever he imagined his upcoming plan; it wouldn't harm anything permanently, after all, but it would show the other inmates that the dog (or Mudkip) will, with enough prodding, bite back.

And hey, TNT being incredibly fun was just an added bonus.

The chest was stocked full with TNT; dozens of sticks sat in haphazard piles, and Husky had even tested a few. He wasn't sure how the fuse continued to run down in water, or how water completely suppressed the damage from the blast, but heck, he wasn't a scientist so he didn't really question it.

He had placed a stick, occasionally two, in strategic places all around the prison; weak points that, when blown, would cause the prison to shudder and crumble. The other inmates would be the obvious victims of this, and the official wardens would just be acceptable casualties. He was pretty sure the official wardens had respawn, anyways.

Also, by "strategic places" and "weak points" he really meant that he had placed the explosives at random and hoped that his goal would be achieved.

A single old matchbook rested within the chest as well, but it was full of nothing but dust and dead hope. So he improvised, sliding the fuse across the floor swiftly and instantly lighting a fire. It was incredibly handy and probably defied all types of legitimate science, but hell, why not?

The TNT fell into place easily, and he felt as if he had a natural ease for planting explosives at random places. He slid the TNT into tight places where no one could find them easily, and it took a little over an hour as he had to avoid any of the other inmates and pass carefully under the warden's office.

But eventually it all fell into place.

He waited within the empty storage room, one hand poised over the button out while the other gripped the TNT. If his plan fell into place, the inmates would gather here, perfectly in position for when the bombs went off.

And it went just as he planned; the inmates gathered near the storage room, lured in at the prospect of abusing the Mudkip some more. Started with a slight whisper, Husky, wearing a glorious false mustache he had liberated from the storage, had given the rumor to SSundee, who in turn graced the rest of the prison with it.

Jerome was the last to arrive; all of them, even the temp-warden Ty, stood around and chatted amicably. He grimaced at the unity of the inmates purely in the idea to mess with him; without hesitating a moment longer, he slid the fuse down the wall. It hissed as the flame sparked, and he tossed it back in as his hand slapped the button and he dashed out.

"Hey," called Sky, "there he is!"

His legs pounded as he dashed forward, faster than any other time in his life before, hearing the sizzle as the TNT counted down, _3, 2, 1, _the feet of the other prisoners slamming against the ground to chase after him, and then the prison was blown straight to the Nether.

The world behind and beneath and around him shattered into hundreds of tiny bits. Sharp rock and metal flew through the air and he was launched away from the ground, waving his arms wildly before slamming into the hard packed dirt. He grunted as the world was destroyed around him, tasting the unmistakable metallic tang of blood in his mouth. His ears rang, pain flashed throughout his body, smoke and ash filled his air...

...and then it all ended.

The silence after the end was unnerving; numbly he sat up, glancing around at the havoc he had caused. The prison was in shatters; no warden's office, fake or real, or cells or mess hall or outdoor gym remained. He was the only one alive, it seemed; and as he stood up on wobbly legs, he once again realized the agony waving through him. He glanced down, nausea filling him as he noticed a metal rod extending straight through his leg, and he fell back to the ground, adjusting the wound awkwardly, causing a fresh wave of pain to flow through him.

He jerked and groaned and bit his tongue before he could scream. Faintly he could hear the shuffling of someone else from nearby, the announcement of the round ending, and then a figure was towering over him. He flinched as he was the blue, glowing blade hang above him; and then, before he could react of think, the sword was plunged easily through his collarbone. He died quickly and quietly, a moment before the prison was reset to its previous form.

When the round reset and the new warden was chosen, Husky was not to be found in any of the cells for the prisoners to yell at. No big loss, they figured, and they didn't even consider how he had managed to escape the vicious cycle.


End file.
